It's like reading someone's diary.

The letters really reveal the real man, unclouded by drugs. Letters were his dreams, fears, a variety of subjects, fidelity, alcohol, faith. It's like reading someone's diary.

She had never gotten over Johnny, so it was a journey of healing.

Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.

That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you to another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive - all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.

Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.